There’s another man on my block who can’t sleep, I’m an admirer of his insomnia, it’s a tool like a glass of water is to thirst. In his case something like music is made, I know because my insomnia stalks his. Our street is lined with maples and has no streetlight and all the dogs…
The stars are filtering through a tree outside in the moon’s silent era. Reality is moving layer over layer like crystal spheres now called laws. The future is right behind your head; just over all horizons is the past. The soul sits looking at its offer.
It’s a pious coil? It could be But you wait to be sure. Your hair blown back by Hope and teased by failure, You grope the lone desert for Sorts. You feel you know Pubic Hair. You want to sing The correlations between mosquito bites. You want to do math The way bricks do…
Paint is what it is and what it ain’t. A shape or a shell, when dry, that can make what it was painted on seem extraneous. Like a house— who can imagine the canary-yellow smooth or rough integument slough off? And yet, if it did: if you were to take the supports out (the house…
Simple isn’t it? The way a fugue begins— a voice alone, another, then another— a mass of math and tangle, tumble, flash! stretto . . . Finally solo even dotted God with stars moves out. Nothing moves in.
There was a stare (yes, was) right here (hope it finds me). Right where the moon blared down its tinny gap. Prevalent predator. Originating—where? Smoke and opal, compressed to a null. Hey orb, what lives in that shell heath, shriek shack? Hey bleach-blink, sheen-gaze, pearl-pith—root of worlds. Splinter in the void’s eye, orphan. Got a…
And the sky! Nooned with the steadfast blue enthusiasm Of an empty nursery. Crooked lizards grassed in yellow shade. The grass was lizarding, Green and on a rampage. Shade tenacious in the crook of a bent stem. Noon. This noon— Skyed, blue and full of hum, full of bloom. The grass was lizarding.
The beds are long the brine is deep in which I press my thoughts to sleep of all that I should not have said or done or learned I mourn the head that held the hymn if shy if dim if unobtrusive Then salt then chest Then palm then less The lies that made me…
O small sunlight on the bark which faded before I could finish my sentence and so changed my sentence in its course, so change me. My course is rotten, I channel Monsieur Berry—who am not such a man. Then let my form of address or my address withal place me zip code not…
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